Page 50 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“But how about food?” Logan asks. “Seating?”

“We’ll call in a second food truck and folks will be too busy dancing to sit!” she says. “The only thing we cannot run out of is cider.”

Surprise aside, doubling the revenue is a huge win. Maybe even enough to convince me to open some mail. Especially if the gala goes without a hitch.

“I think we might also need another server,” I say. “Someone to pour all that cider.”

“My brother can help,” Logan says.

“Andrew?” Val asks.

“Mason. He’s in his junior year at PNU, and he’s got a new job at a bar in Maplehurst. Not even old enough to drink legally, but he’s already got someone paying him money to tap a keg.”

Val snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy for the excuse to show off his skills, as long as I can be sure it doesn’t interfere with his exams.”

Val smacks her palms together and rubs them tightly. “This is shaping up.”

She’s already clomping toward the door when Logan meaningfully lifts his eyebrows toward her disappearing back.

Right! The pears.

I scamper down my rungs. “Val?”

“Walk with me,” she says over her shoulder, moving surprisingly fast for a woman still in a boot. “If I’m late for this game, they’ll let Bernie deal, and she flashes the bottom card like it’s a damn peep show.”

“Right,” I say as we spill onto the moist grass, just long enough that it clings to my boots. I suck in a breath, steel myself. “Well, I know you’ve noticed the pears by now.”

Val glances over her shoulder. This patch is one of the most advanced—the glassy pears are iridescent, and when they catch the wind, the hues shift like the whirls in a soap bubble.

She grunts. “Strange. My money’s on a new sort of pear rust.”

I splutter a laugh but she doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Come on,” I say as she starts walking again. “Logan and I found multicolored bunnies in the barn. Like, not brown and white—blue and green.”

She shrugs. “Maybe someone dyed them. Could have been a prank.”

“Val.”

And maybe this time I’ve been forceful enough because she pauses mid-stride.

“This is not pear rust and we both know it,” I insist, motioning at the closest tree. As if on cue, the wind breathes over the branches and the hyaline pears clink together, making the gentle tinkling sound of forks tapped against a sea of champagne flutes. “This is supernatural. I inherited this land. I’m responsible for this farm. I think it’s only fair for you to tell me what’s going on.”

I brace myself as Val runs her tongue over her teeth. Her gaze drags from my face up the hill toward where the house sits and back down. She swallows, and her shoulders are still stiff, but she doesn’t shut down again.

“Fine,” she says. “You’re right.”

“I’m right,” I repeat, feeling like this needs to be marked with an audible record-scratch. “You agree it’s supernatural.”

She throws up her hands. “Yeah, whatever. Supernatural. Afflicted. Cursed.”

I squint at her. “Cursed?”

She flinches. “Or whatever.”

“You didn’t say ‘or whatever,’ you said ‘cursed.’ ”